Hold On
by TheConsultingAuthor
Summary: A small piece about John and Sherlock spending some free time at the flat. John doesn't want to be just another piece of furniture, though he believes that's how the detective views him. Updates possible if I get enough interest.


**A/N**

_Hello again. I'm sorry I've been neglecting my other stories to start new ones like this, but I can't help it. Writer's block is a bitch sometimes, and this is what happens when I experience it - lots of little drabble stories that simply waste my time. I promise I'll be back to updating the others soon!_

_This piece is supposed to be a small stand-alone thing; it _could _develop into more in the near future (I've actually began writing a second part already) but I want to refocus on a couple of my more demanding pieces before I come back to this. Therefore, it shall be listed as "complete" until further notice._

_Just a little story about John and Sherlock, inspired by some jazz music I'd been listening to last hour. Reviews are loved but not necessary~ Thank you for reading._

* * *

The evening started with a comfortable air hanging throughout the flat. John silently sipped a cuppa, watching his lissome friend play the violin effortlessly, filling the room with a mellifluous song. Sherlock always had a graceful sense about him, whether he be throwing a fit or running cross London in search of a suspect. The soldier closed his eyes slowly, absorbing as much of the melody and the atmosphere as was humanly possible. How he wished such peace would grace their lives uninterrupted. At the same time, he realized that this utopia would quickly become boring for the both of them. These small moments between cases were more than enough for him.

Without warning, the melody ceased. Sherlock placed the violin delicately into its case and left the room without a word. John let out a sigh; he really had enjoyed the background noise while he swam through his own thoughts. _Oh well. It was fun while it had lasted_. He finished the last of his tea before making his way to the kitchen sink. A pile of beakers and test tubes had made their bed in the bottom of the basin, but still left just enough room to rinse dishes out. John would deal with the science equipment later.

By the time he re-entered the living area, Sherlock had taken a perch on the back of his leather armchair, fingers in a tight triangle under his nose, staring at nothing in particular. What he could be pondering, John had no clue. But whatever it was, he'd been obsessing about it for quite some time now. The two had said hardly five words to each other over the last three days, simply coexisting without acknowledging the other more than absolutely necessary. John had grown accustomed to this way of life with the consulting detective, yet he felt his stomach turn and heart squeeze as his flat mate continued to ignore him. He really didn't like being left alone for too long. He needed Sherlock's voice ringing in his ears more often; he wanted to feel wanted by the man. He felt his brow furrow and heart grow heavy at this thought. Little did he know, he had been caught.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was cautious; it was enough to make the doctor jump out of his skin, though. A small smirk spread across the detective's face momentarily, before returning to his solemn state.

"Yes, Sherlock?" He really hadn't been expecting the lithe man to talk for another day or two. John's heart beat quickly in his chest as he tried to display a calm face to his companion.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock's eyes danced, looking over every single feature John's face had to offer. The question didn't sound too concerned, but John knew better than to think he had inquired for no reason at all. That wasn't a thing Sherlock Holmes did. Something about his prior train of thought must have leaked across his face. And of course the man who could see a person's entire life story with no more than three seconds of observation had seen the fleeting expression.

"I'm – yeah. I'm all fine." He gave Sherlock an unconvincing smile.

"John." There was a more stern tone to his voice this time. "You can't fool me. You know that." A smile spread across Sherlock's lips, as if to say "_I'm a hundred-fold brighter than you'll ever be_." It ticked John off a bit (probably because it was true), but he retained his composure.

"I was just thinking. That's all." He was more sincere in his smile this time around, but Sherlock still appeared to be wary. "Really. It's all good."

"You were thinking about me. Or us, to be exact." He watched John like a hawk. The soldier swallowed and licked his lips. No getting out of this one. "But why? What is it about us…" the smooth baritone faded as he gazed fervently into John's eyes, trying to peek into his brain and extract answers without John speaking.

The doctor didn't give his detective the satisfaction of coming to his own conclusions. "I was just thinking how lonely it felt without us talking so much. Granted, I've been busy with work most days and you've been running about London most nights; but it's the fact that even when we're here at the same time, you seem to care less. I could probably head off across the pond for a few weeks and you wouldn't notice." John felt the frustration boiling in his heart.

"I would notice." Sherlock's eyes seemed warmer as he said this. "I notice everything. I know you were injured this week when a patient kicked you in the side of your leg yesterday. Some of your limp has returned because of it, not exactly psychosomatic in nature this time. Two days ago, Sarah had brought in biscuits and tea, which weren't the best but you politely nibbled at them anyways. You had crumbs on your jumper that appeared to have been scattered at uneven intervals, suggesting that you'd had it for over five minutes before finally disposing of it. After that, she asked you out for drinks, but you refused her because you had "other plans." Really, John. Choose to like her or not, don't lead her on. You received a haircut three days ago – nothing unordinary, just a regular trim, and a good one this time. Seems like your barber finally has gotten an understanding on how to handle a pair of clippers correctly. And you've had more patients than normal over the past week; your hands give that away. You've been flexing them in order to stretch out the muscles, cramped from writing so many scripts and records."

John – though he'd been evaluated by the man plenty of times before – was impressed as he'd been the first time the two had met. Sherlock _never_ failed to amaze him. Some of the opinions the detective interjected left him a bit pissed, but amazed nonetheless.

"But I would most certainly notice if you were gone that long." The detective continued. "It's not that I don't care - it's that I'm not entirely sure of how to show that I _do_ care. I'm so set in my habits - moping and shutting the world out when I'm frustrated or thinking - that they're hard to break at this point. But I do see when you come home, or when you leave, and even when you look the faintest bit sad. Just because I'm not talking doesn't mean I'm not watching." His face was completely serious as he finished his address.

For a moment, John sat speechless. He was happy that Sherlock did take note of what he was up to. He just wished dearly the man could make more of a conscious effort to open himself up and keep John in the loop of his own goings-on. The doctor could pick up hints of things every now and then, but he certainly was unable to tell Sherlock about what he'd eaten two days ago based off of a stain on his shirt.

"I'm flattered, Sherlock. I truly am. I wasn't honestly sure if you considered me to be another piece of furniture or something." John's eyes fell to the floor. He was ashamed of it, but he'd convinced himself long ago that he had been nothing more than a replacement for the skull Sherlock kept on the mantelpiece.

Within seconds, Sherlock made a fluid movement from his chair to the floor before John's knees. He knelt closely, an intense look of hurt flashing across his eyes. "John… No. I could never…" His hand shot up to John's chin, gently tilting the man's head to look directly at him. "You're much more important than a piece of furniture or a fixture. You're so much more."

Normally John would jump at such intimate contact in fear of what onlookers may say about the couple, but he could care less. Not only that, they were alone. If he shrank away from it now, he'd certainly wound Sherlock emotionally. Then he wouldn't be able to get a word out of him for more than a couple weeks.

Instead, he melted into his friend's dainty hand with a sigh of relief. "I know. Somewhere deep down I know that's true. I just need some reassurance every now and then from you. I don't want to become boring for you."

"Apologies, John. You're more than aware that all of this is foreign to me." Sherlock gave John a sad smile before breaking away. "I've got a case, if you'd like to join me. Two murders, separate ends of town. Both male victims, late twenties. Lestrade seems to believe they're connected, but he's requested a professional opinion." He put on his coat and scarf while looking at the doctor.

"Do you even have to ask?" John practically leapt from the chair and threw his coat over his oatmeal jumper. The duo made their way hastily and happily down the stairs, off to solve another mystery.


End file.
